


What If They Could?

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gay, Gay Romance, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid Love, Kidlock, M/M, Potential trigger warning, Romance, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Soulmates, Teenlock, Teens in love, bcc sherlock, occasionally heavy angst, soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was six years old when he met John Watson. He was only six years old when he started believing in soulmates.He was six when he started wondering if soulmates could fall in love.So, what if they could?





	1. The Conductor of Light

The world is full of idiots. They plague every space of the land on which we walk, talking and chatting and shouting and lecturing. Every space in which one walks, an idiot has dwelled there too.

  That is the only thing school had taught Sherlock Holmes.

  Not a single person had shown a shred of intelligence, not in the last six months in which he’d been forced into attending primary school. Day in and day out he’d been faced with the all-consuming oblivion of boredom. Utter boredom.

  It was torturous to force himself out of his room each morning from where he sat in silence and peace, working on fascinating experiments involving various small animals, expensive equipment and the occasional mini explosion. It was torturous to walk down the halls of such a stupid school of the collection of the world’s _most_ ignorant generation. It felt such a dishonour to have to be claimed as a part of this cohort of utter imbeciles.

  No one, absolutely _no one_ was even remotely interesting or worth his precious time. Such a _waste_ to spend his hours in a place where no one appreciated his magnificence or greatness or such extraordinary intellect.

  So after six months of complaining of the utter boredom he was put through, Sherlock’s parents _finally_ gave in and allowed him to move up a few year levels (hardly a sufficient raise, but he’d go for anything for the moment and then bargain for more advancement. It wasn’t as if they could _lower_ him once he’d been put up a few grades, so really, he had nothing to lose once he was moved).

  The next school day had come, and so Sherlock began the adventure of an almost improved version of torture.

  As it had happened, nothing was any noticeably different, even with the few years’ advancement.

  Well… except for the size.

  The size difference was enormous.

  Sherlock had not _quite_ anticipated just how much _taller_ everyone was going be. They seemed to be at least a foot taller than him, at best, and it was quite unnerving walking into a classroom of people two years older and one to two feet taller than oneself.

  He supposed it was stupid, really, to have expected anything less than this, but he’d been far too focused on and almost, _almost_ excitedly wondering what the classes would be like, and if they would be even a _small_ improvement from the ones he’d been previously forced to take. But now, rather than focusing on the ridiculous “maths equations” and unbearably simple grammar lessons he found himself faced with, he spent the day cursing his stupid legs and his stupid body for not growing quite as quickly as his brain had; for making him live with the humiliation of looking so much smaller than he felt, and so much more out of place than he otherwise would have been.

 

  By the second day, things had gotten worse.

  The stupid people in his class (the entire population of it) seemed to only get stupider, and actually possessed the audacity to be surprised, _yet again_ , at the appearance of a six year old in amongst a class of eight year olds.

  It was unbearably stupid and incredibly dull, but he ignored it in favour of focusing his mind inwardly, thinking forward to the somewhat exciting experiment he’d been working on day in and day out for the past two months, and how close he was to completing it; how he only had to decapitate the frog and cut out the vital organs of the sheep and it would be ready to-

                ‘Um, hello,’ the confident and yet unsure, quiet and yet steady, soft and yet strong voice cut through his musings.

  Irritation flooded his body as he glanced painfully at the boy standing in front of him, as though it took every ounce of willpower in his body and physically hurt to do so.

  A quick scan of the figure told Sherlock’s irritated mind that this boy was quite interested in rugby, was of a relatively poor family, and had one older sibling of whom he’d inherited quite inexpensive items from.

  With a huff he glanced up into the face, ready and posed to fire the ammunition of deductions before this new person could speak, but instead, he found himself met with soft blue eyes, and a kind yet unsure smile playing across his face, an adorably rosy nose and cheeks, and an ever-increasing blush creeping up his neck, and he found he couldn’t speak, trapped in a trance of awe at the strange creature standing across from him.

  And then the cogs in his brain snapped back into action, and he wiped the stupid expression off his face and replaced it with a mask of nonchalance before speaking in his monotone voice, as though completely indifferent of the situation at hand, and as though he hadn’t been utterly captivated by the boy now standing in front of him, ‘hello.’

  The boy’s smile slipped ever so slightly, and very suddenly Sherlock felt a rush of guilt course through him along with his dislike for his stupidity to erase that pretty smile from such a pretty face, probably the first kindness any stranger had ever shown him before.

‘Are you new here?’ the boy asked kindly, a strange look of determination Sherlock couldn’t quite understand, displayed across his face.

  Sherlock nodded his head, swallowing around the lump that had formed in his throat, frowning slightly at noticing its existence.

  It was strange, so very strange, seeing these reactions occur from him. No one had ever had any kind of effect on Sherlock, besides the annoyance and eye rolls, and occasional scoff he granted every person who had come to the point of utter _absurdity_ , in which he just simply could not hold out against the absolute _need_ to huff with annoyance or ridicule for the stupidity in which a person contained.

  But not now. Now, Sherlock found himself faced with a very new reaction to another person and it was bizarre and unfamiliar and somewhat terrifying.

                ‘Yes,’ he replied with, his voice still monotone with fake indifference.

  And then the deductions flooded his mind once again, and he tried to resist it, he really, _really_ did, but then he found himself speaking against his own will; the will of his sanity and the part of him that told him that this boy’s kindness was something to be cherished, rather than scared off forever.

                ‘And so are you, judging by your out-of-character cleanliness, your solitude and approach of _me_ ,’ he said.

  The boy just stared at him and blinked for a few seconds before saying softly, ‘sorry, what-’

                ‘You’ve arrived at this school just today, judging by your somewhat heavy bag and new outfit, not to mention your hair.’

                ‘My hair?-’

                ‘Done excessively carefully this morning; especially neatly and in a hair style you haven’t done before, or that you have only started doing recently –your hair hasn’t been cut for a while and isn’t cut to suit the hairstyle you currently have done. Nervousness also contributes to this deduction, and not just from the timidness of an obviously otherwise-outgoing person, but also from the vague, red marks on your forehead from the comb that you were using to do your hair, and from the messiness of said-hair that you took a good ten minutes on this morning, and going by the nervous twitch in your hands, you tend to run your hands through your hair when you’re nervous about something. Simple deduction: your first day.

  ‘Now there’s also the matter of the shoes and clothes. All clothes have been newly bought, but the shoes and bag haven’t, and yet you felt the need to keep up appearances, so you’ve polished your shoes to make them appear new, anyway. So keeping up looks still. Now, that could add to the good-impression ideal of being a new kid, or… it could suggest an attempt –subconsciously or consciously- to keep people from assuming that you have money problems in your family highly suggested by the old shoes and hand-me-down backpack. But then, if you have money problems in your family, why bother to buy polish for your shoes? Probably because you found it somewhere in the house you recently moved to. Now, the new house is a bit of a leap, but there wouldn’t be much else of a reason to change schools if you hadn’t moved house. The reason for moving though does remain unclear. It could possibly be something to do with your parents –in fact, no, it almost certainly is –when isn’t it? So, judging by money problems it’s probably to do with your father, who seems to have… abandoned you? Maybe. Or maybe doesn’t accept you because of something that happened. Or more likely, doesn’t accept your brother, –Harry, if the name on your bag is anything to go by- but that may not be the case. So the likeliness of it being your brother’s “fault” for this mess is increased due to your behaviour as a son. You’re clearly not as old as the majority of this class, suggesting you’ve been moved up a year just as I have. One year though, not two, because while younger than the rest of the class, you’re most certainly not six, so seven it is. This extension in school, along with the rugby or football you’ve been very obviously playing –obvious from your fit and tanned body- suggests that you’re trying to impress someone –a father figure, obviously- in order to make up for your brother’s “failure.”

  And lastly, to add to the deduction, you’re clearly new here and looking to make friends, otherwise you wouldn’t have had the ignorance to approach me, of all people, in this horrible place.’

  Sherlock stopped talking and stared at the boy, a heaviness resting in his stomach and weighing him down inwardly in misery as he watched the boy’s facial expressions shift from what seemed like amazement, to wonder, to awe, to incredibility, to… fascination? No, that couldn’t be right. No.

  And then finally, after what felt like hours of painful guilt, the boy spoke again, ‘woah,’ he whispered.

  Having been looking down at his shoes and shuffling slightly in discomfort, Sherlock’s eyes snap back to the other boy’s, and before he could stop himself and his stupid mouth, he was saying, ‘what?’

  The boy smiled ever-so-slightly, and a whoosh of excitement coursed through his veins at the sight, and a glimmer of hope sparkled in his chest at the thought of this boy being kind to him still. Not that this kindness would land him anywhere or with anything, he’d just end up scaring off even the bravest and most determined person to approach him, but it was nice, just to feel this temporary happiness at the thought of being thought of as something other than a freak.

                ‘That was amazing,’ said the boy simply, his voice betraying no emotion, just truthful in an almost blunt way, as if it couldn’t be anything but the truth, and insisting otherwise was an absurd notion.

  But Sherlock’s mind really just wasn’t working very well in the presence of this wonderful boy, and he continued to stare at him, before finally finding his voice and asking, almost timidly, ‘you really think so?’

                ‘Of course it was, it was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.’

  And Sherlock almost giggled at the use of the boy’s words, the way in which he pronounced them suggesting that he was copying a phrase he’d heard recently and didn’t fully understand. And filled with the giddiness from this, he blurted, ‘that’s not what people normally say.’

                ‘What do people normally say?’

  Sherlock felt slightly put-out at this, and replied half-heartedly, ‘piss off.’

  And then a wave of happiness rushed through him once more as the boy burst out laughing, and he felt unbelievably light and utterly captivated by the strange and astounding being standing in front of him, laughing the most beautiful of laughs, and smiling at him as though he were something worth smiling at and someone worth _paying attention to_ in a way that wasn’t to taunt him for amusement rather than out of kindness.

  And for once, Sherlock found himself laughing along with them.

 

  John Watson.

  That was the name of the most amazing boy to have ever graced this planet.

  He was kind and beautiful and intelligent and utterly _perfect_ in every way a person could be.

  And he was Sherlock Holmes’ only friend.

  The only good in an otherwise cold and empty world.

  John Watson, the conductor of light.

 

 


	2. Little Boys

Seven year old John Watson became the best friend Sherlock Holmes (six years old), could have ever asked for.

  He followed him around obediently, listened to his ridiculous ramblings-on that went on forever and ever, the types of one-sided conversations that no one else would listen to. And yet John was always there, listening with a smile and bright eyes. Always there. And _listening._

  He was the greatest privilege a person could have. Never mind money and wealth and good education (Sherlock didn’t need that anyway) Sherlock didn’t care about any of those things. He couldn’t care about a single other thing in the universe, if John Watson was in the room.

  He knew there were things about John that weren’t perfect –well, he knew there were aspects of John’s _life_ that weren’t perfect- and yet John remained as flawless and beautiful and kind as he did, and it always amazed Sherlock.

  But then he realised something when watching John interact with other people, which he did, often, because he’s a friendly person, and that’s just what he was like. But those people, those other boring, stupid people were faced with a completely different side of John Watson. He was polite and kind, and offered a smile and comforting words if needed, or a cheer and shout when someone managed to achieve something worth noting (according to _them_ , most certainly _not_ by Sherlock’s opinion), but they never saw _John,_ _his_ John. The one who smiled warmly at him every time he saw him enter the room, the one who gave him these soft looks whenever he rambled aimlessly about whatever occupied his mind, the one who never stopped _being there_ if he could help it, because that’s who he was. John. Perfect and beautiful and amazing. And it was this that made him understand that it wasn’t necessarily John, it was them _together._ They just simply… fit.

  John perfectly complemented Sherlock’s brilliance and often unkind behaviour, with his own people’s intelligence and emotions. And yet John was not like these other people who seemed to know nothing _but_ socialising. John was still intelligent, and yet not in a boastful or outspoken way, the way Sherlock was. And John didn’t need to hide his emotions the way Sherlock felt he needed to. Sherlock supposed John did often hide his feelings, he often caught his friend staring sadly at something for a moment before breaking out of his trance and smiling brightly, but John wasn’t scared of showing emotion the way Sherlock was.

  Sherlock was reserved to only himself and John Watson. He only ever smiled brightly when John was in the room, when John was looking at him –or looking away, and Sherlock was watching him instead- and held his fixed mask of nonchalance in the presence of other people. Nothing about anybody else made Sherlock Holmes feel the need to smile. But John did, and that made him special in a way that no one else could be. Because John was John, and Sherlock was Sherlock, and together they were perfect and unbreakable and inseparable and needed each other as much as the other did.

  The six and seven year old that made the most unbreakable bond imaginable.

  Sherlock never believed in fate or magic or _coincidences_ , for that matter, but he was only six years old when he started believing in soulmates.

 

  One night, one month after the two met for the first time, John had come over to Sherlock’s house –mansion- for a sleepover.

  When dinner had been eaten and the two had been excused, they’d snuck outside the house into the night and run hand-in-hand to the park adjacent to Sherlock’s gigantic home.

  There, Sherlock had led John to his favourite spot by the lake (the lake he often used for catching various animals for his experiments) and lay down on his back on the grass, John following suit, lying next to him.

  Sherlock, looking back up at the stars, took his hand again and John sighed quietly in contentment.

                ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ he asked softly, turning his head to look at John’s young face, scattered in moonlight, looking soft and kind and beautiful.

  John laughed quietly and said, ‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’

  Sherlock frowned in mock-offence and nudged his friend with the hand still enclosed with his.

  John only laughed harder.

 

  A moment of peaceful, comfortable silence fell upon the pair.

                ‘We could get married,’ Sherlock whispered softly into the cold night air.

  John laughed softy, ‘you have to fall in love to get married.’

                ‘Then we could fall in love,’ Sherlock said, turning his face towards the boy beside him, his gaze fiercely serious and loving at the same time, hidden under the cloak of darkness that John could have only just seen past, had he been looking.

                ‘Little boys don’t love other little boys,’ John said finally.

  Sherlock remained thoughtfully quiet. Then after a moment he asked, ‘but what if they could?’

  John finally tore his eyes from the stars above him, endless in the dark night sky, and instead fixed his strong gaze on Sherlock, his eyes held his fiercely and protectively, and there was nothing dishonest in the look he gave his friend when he replied, ‘then we would.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the end of the prologue, and the beginning of the actual story. These first two chapters were more a way to explain the title.  
> I'll be doing as regular updates as possible. <3


	3. Inseperable Bonds

  It turns out inseparable bonds can break.

  That is a life lesson Sherlock Holmes learnt when he was eleven, the _hard_ way.

  When he’d cried about it, Mycroft had only told him to ‘ _grow up_ ’ and stop being so sentimental.

  John had had to go. His father had taken a job in France and John had to go with him. Mr. Watson took Sherlock Holmes’ only friend away from him. He took away his soulmate.

  Sherlock had tried to tell himself that John would be back, or that John would eventually at least _contact_ him as soon as he could, and maybe they could start writing letters to each other so they could at least be together the only way they could be over such a long distance.

  But then six months passed, then a year, and the hope of their everlasting friendship slowly begun to disappear as Sherlock finally started to realise that John was _John;_ that he could easily find another person to replace him as his best friend; that it would be easy for him to find another Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock very, very nearly hated his old friend for that because it was unfair that he could move on so easily. John Watson could find another Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock Holmes would never find another John Watson.

  Never.

  So he spent the rest of his primary school years alone.

  Several incidences a month would occur where Sherlock would “run into the pole outside the library” or “trip over that stupid cable that seemed to spring out every time he walked in between the desks in one of the classrooms” and the nurse would have to tend to his blood nose and black eyes.

  It was painful, it was definitely painful, but Sherlock got through it, because he knew that there was nothing else he could do.

  No matter what school he went to, no matter where he went there would always be “a pole for him to walk into” or “something for him to trip over.”

  Though he very much hoped that wherever he were to move to, should he move, there would be a pole to use as an excuse, because he found that walking into poles was the only plausible explanation for the symptoms of a punched nose.

  He had at first considered telling the nurse that he’d walked into a wall, but when running through the section of his mind palace that was the school, looking for a wall that he could have potentially run straight into, he found none. So the pole had served as a much more effective lie.

  He never even considered the possibility that perhaps if he moved, the people would be kinder there, and wouldn’t bother to punch him in the face every time he crossed their path.

  Because eventually, after years of being treated like a freak, Sherlock learned it was simply because people were like that.

  People hated the truth, people hated being told the truth. John Watson was the only exception to that. But then again, John was the only exception to a lot of things, including holding the interest of Sherlock Holmes for much longer than a second before boring him to death with their _ridiculousness_.

  _Why did people insist on being so boring?_

 

  Sherlock was thirteen when he realised he was very much _not_ interested in girls.

  He had considered that perhaps he was completely asexual and aromantic, were it not for the extremely _limited_ number of men he found himself slightly attracted to.

  But apparently according to other people, being thirteen meant having to _date_ people and do all sorts of absurd things involving another person.

  So when the bizarre and rather unwelcome pink note appeared in his locker one day (which he deduced was from the small, pretty girl called Molly who occupied the locker two from his –the smell of her perfume and the small neat handwriting rather gave away the “anonymity” of the note) he decided he was definitely _not_ interested in anything with anyone of the fair sex.

  It seemed like such an odd and _horrific_ idea.

  He’d tried to consider accepting her offer. He’d tried to imagine holding hands with the small girl and smiling at her and talking to her, but more importantly _listening_.

  He couldn’t ever imagine wanting to listen to a single thing anyone else had to say, he didn’t even remember what it felt like to want to hear someone else speak, to actually want to impress them with his cleverness and his intelligent ideas and theories on things the listener would probably never understand.

  Sherlock had even tried to forget him.

  He’d tried to erase the boy from his mind, to cleanse every inch of his mind palace that he possessed. But it wasn’t just difficult, it was _impossible._

  John had taken over every aspect of Sherlock’s mind. The storage place for memories always had something of John, the places in which he revisited in his mind always had a trace of John Watson even if he hadn’t been there when Sherlock had seen the place or experienced the event at the time it happened. It was as though he was with him everywhere and in every moment; that he was inescapable. And the absence of that amazing human being had left a gaping hole in Sherlock’s life. It was as though he’d intertwined his soul into Sherlock’s and then left him behind with only half of himself left to claim.

  It had been _two years_.

  It had been _two years_ and Sherlock still _wasn’t over it._

  Every day he could swear that he heard John’s voice or laugh. Every day, he would see a boy of similar height and tan, and similar short, soft, blond hair, and for a moment his heart would leap and he’d actually think that John had come back for him. But every time, it ended the same way and Sherlock would be left feeling more and more alone.

 

  Mycroft said it was ridiculous. His mother worried about him constantly in an annoyingly watchful and insistent way. His father didn’t approve. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what anyone said or did because the only thing that could fix him was the chance to see John again. He needed it. He needed him with every fibre of his being.

  But every passing day only seemed to bring the crushing reality back to him that John wasn’t coming back to London, and that he’d never see him again. Because soulmates may feel real, but they weren’t _destined_ to be together. A person could only appear perfect for another for so long. And soulmates could be torn apart.

 

 


	4. I Don't Need You, Not Really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for the swearing, but there will be the occasional language in here.  
> Also, just to be clear I DO NOT approve of the words that the people mentioned use against him, but I felt it would be a realistic thing for them to say against young Sherlock.  
> Also, just to be clear, I generally tend to stay well away from homophobia, even in teen!lock, because I feel like people's insistence to continuously make it just another part of being a young, gay teenager is extremely annoying and inertial and I wish it would just stop being the norm for stories like this.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy

   Sherlock finally removed his constant need for John Watson a few months after his fourteenth birthday.

  Sherlock still attended school, though he was now three years ahead of the other people his age, so he was finally completing his second-last year before graduation.

  His body had also finally heard his younger-self’s plea to grow at the same rate as his mind, although it compromised with only the decency to grow enough to make him appear at least sixteen (though he argued his mind was _above_ the level of the average adult, going by the absolute stupidity of all the teachers he’d ever come across).

  He still looked weak, though, despite his advancements in growth. And this was something the exceeding school _idiots_ seemed to quite agree on.

  Still, he hadn’t quite mastered the ability to _shut his mouth_ and to simply let his pride be hurt whenever one of the _morons_ decided they’d like to pay him a visit. The beatings had become more common than not now, so much so that he almost managed to ignore the pain of every punch they threw at him.

  The top-idiots had developed a taste to name calling among him and their other targeted kids of lesser-people. They did often call Sherlock names like _Freak,_ and _faggot_ and _fairy_ (they’d a taste for the letter _f_ , apparently) but quite frankly, Sherlock couldn’t give a shit what they called him, it had stopped hurting a long time ago, knowing that he’d never be accepted by a single other human being the way he had been by John Watson.

  Well, that’s what Sherlock tried to convince himself, anyway.

  Nevertheless, he knew that whatever they did, the physical pain was always the worst thing they could do. He could easily hide the scars inside of him from every word they spat at his cold, helpless body, every word that sent knives slicing through his chest “ _alone, loser, Freak_ ,” but he couldn’t hide the black eyes they delivered, from the scrutiny of his family, especially his _annoyingly_ watchful older brother, and it took a lot of convincing on his part to not send him away to another school again because he knew that that would only send him into another group of horrible people. And Sherlock didn’t want that because there was _no point,_ because nothing would ever get better no matter where he went, or what he did, because no matter how hard he tried to be better, people hated Sherlock Holmes and that’s just the way it was.

  Sherlock was unlovable.

  He was alone and lost and dilapidated.

  So instead of showing this, he came off as cruel and unkind, the way Mycroft seemed to want him to be. He kept his mask on his face constantly, and didn’t offer a single smile, even in the face of happiness. If the universe wanted to give him the hardship enough to require coldness, he’d be cold, even if it was just for the sake of his own protection. Because even if he somehow managed to find another John Watson out there somewhere, someday, he’d only end up losing _him_ , too.

  And Sherlock couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would do to him for a second time.


	5. Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story, by the way -I haven't said that yet, but I really, really appreciate readers :D  
> Thanks Xx

  Sherlock stopped holding out hope for goodness to ever come back to him.

  He stopped looking into the faces of other people because he’d still occasionally find himself wishing for it to be John’s instead, smiling his bright smile at him, and looking at him as though he were the most admirable and amazing thing to ever lay eyes on.

  He knew that he should stop thinking so highly of John. Yes, treasure the memories of the only happiness he ever got in his life, but no, not to hold onto it like it might someday return.

  He also knew it was irrational to even _want_ him to return. The last time he’d laid eyes on John Watson, Sherlock had been eleven, and his best friend, twelve.

  If Sherlock were to ever meet his former-companion again, he knew he’d end up being different; no longer perfect, and no longer kind; no longer his other half. And he knew that seeing that for real would shatter the perfect fantasy he had of that wonderful boy being _his_ wonderful boy for the rest of time.

  No one remained perfect and no one remained another’s best friend. And knowing Sherlock’s general luck in life, he knew there was no point counting on the fact that his now-sixteen-year-old friend would still be his perfect match and his soulmate to this day.

  So on the 7th of November, during his daily brooding sessions of staring out the window and sighing melodramatically during maths class, when the teacher called for the class’ attention to announce the arrival of a new student by the name of “John Watson,” Sherlock could have sworn his stomach plummeted so far downwards that it hit the inner core of the planet.

  Snapping his head towards the front of the classroom, he found himself eyeing a shortish, blond, fit, sixteen year old boy, his hair done neatly and yet messily from where it had been run through with his right hand nervously over the past hour, his left arm clutching school books that he’d brought him with to the classroom and his right arm holding a water bottle precariously between his fingertips.

  And then the world came to a stop as the nervous, blue eyes that had been anxiously scanning the room finally met his, and the world seemed to completely dissolve around him (highly unlikely, but it certainly felt so) and this _gorgeous_ blond boy called _John Watson_ was staring straight at him as though in as much awe and shock as he was.

  And then the eye contact was very suddenly ended, and Sherlock felt a wave of dislike at the cause of their broken connection before realising that the teacher was talking to this John Watson, and being given a moment of pause enough to catch his breath, reality crashed into him like a tidal wave and he felt as though he’d been knocked off his feet (metaphorically, seeing as he was currently seated) at the realisation that **this was John.**

  _John._

_It was John Watson._

Short, blond and fit and called _John Watson_.

  He was _his John_.

  _John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

                ‘Um, hello,’ a confident and yet unsure, quiet and yet steady, soft and yet strong voice cut through his panic.

  And as the world became incredibly slow as time almost literally _slowed down_ , Sherlock looked up slowly at the boy in front of him, his unhidden awe spread out across his face for all the world to see, the carefully-placed barriers shattering for a moment as he felt lost and found and hopeless and revived all at the same time, because staring back at him were the deep, nervous, blue eyes of _fucking John Watson_.

                ‘Hello,’ he said, trying his absolute hardest to keep his voice even and unconcerned, even though right now there was nothing Sherlock could concern himself _more_ with than the fact that he was here; that John was _here_ and he was talking to him and this was all happening again and Sherlock literally could not believe it.

  Smiling shyly and looking up at him under his lashes, John stood there, so perfect and breathtakingly beautiful that it was… well… breathtaking.

                ‘Are you new here?’ John said so softly that it was almost a whisper, but for all Sherlock knew he might as well have been shouting, because currently the rest of the universe ceased to exist and stopped being _heard_ because that voice was _here_ and _talking to him_ and _oh my god, this was real_.

                ‘No,’ Sherlock practically croaked.

  Then, very _unsubtly_ scanning his (beautiful) body, Sherlock looked back up at him and cleared his throat before saying, ‘but you are, judging by your out-of-character cleanliness, your late arrival to class, and approach of _me_.’ (Not to mention the fact that the teacher had introduced John _as_ new, so that was a bit of a dead giveaway.)

  And then John smirked and moved towards the empty seat to his right, and said almost mockingly, ‘and how do you deduce that, Sherlock Holmes?’ before turning to his left and giving him a knowing look.

                ‘Well, you’ve obviously only just arrived at this school and possibly even London, today, judging by your-’

  Sherlock only just suppressed his _yelp_ of surprise as John quite literally dived at him, and suddenly he was engulfed in a gigantic hug, being squeezed unbearably tight, and it was the _most wonderful thing_ that had happened to him in the last five years, because while he seemed to be having the living daylights _squeezed_ out of him, it was _John_ that was doing it, and everything felt suddenly okay, and it didn’t even matter that he currently couldn’t breathe because he was pretty certain that this wasn’t a dream, and that John; _his John_ , was in the room with him again and the stars had aligned and the world had righted itself again, because John was _back_ , and Sherlock had his best friend once more.

  Then after a long time, John pulled back from his best friend and stared back up at him with endearment shining in his eyes, and a smile splayed across his face, and only then as the pain sparked through his chest, did he finally realise just _how much_ he had missed that face; that smile; that _love._

  And suddenly Sherlock realised he was smiling.

  He was looking straight into those soft, blue eyes and grinning like the idiot he had seemed to become when John entered the room, because oh my god, _those eyes_ were looking at him like he wasn’t disgusting or shameful or something to kick or punch, and they were beautiful and perfect and everything felt right again and within just a few minutes of John’s being existing in the same room as him, the last five years of a living nightmare of a cold, dark, cruel world seemed to slowly fade from his mind, and he was left with just the _now_ , the _right now_ and _right now_ was amazing, therefore life was once again amazing and everything felt good and right because _John was here_ and _everything was okay._

  So, Sherlock supposed that for once he had been wrong (which wasn’t a common theme, mind.)

  Soulmates did find their way back to each other in the end.

 

 


	6. My Other Half

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really know where this was going until it came out onto the keyboard, so here it is, spectacularly cliché and disappointing, but an addition to my story, anyhow.  
> To add to that, I now also have the premise for the remainder of this fanfiction, even though, unfortunately, it will have to contain a rather basic and predictable plot line, filled with obvious turns, because unfortunately I don't really have much of skill in writing unpredictable and new plot lines. -It happens to be extremely hard (considering the number of stories ever told before, I think pretty much every possible solution has been told before in some way or another; there's nothing new under the sun)  
> So, here it is, my story, told once more just in a slightly different setting, and in slightly different words and phrases. And this time, told by me.  
> Enjoy <3

  We are all one piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Sherlock was the type that made up his own island in a world map jigsaw, surrounded entirely by blue, outcast by the rest of humanity. John was the land that had been conjured up next to him after the effects of an earthquake, terrifying and devastating, but in the end bringing something new and _amazing_ to Sherlock’s ruins. John had anchored him to the rest of humanity. He’d kept him sane and happy and alive.

  When he’d left, that jigsaw piece that was John Watson had disappeared and he was left with nothing but an empty black hole of oblivion next to him.

  Once again lost and alone and vulnerable, he tried to close the wounds and start anew with nothing left but himself, just him, alone and lost for the rest of time. He tried to let the water take hold of the space around him, to go back to suffocating and isolating him. But when he tried, he found the water only seeped onto his island and slowly flooded it. And day by day, inch by inch, the water rose. And even though Sherlock could build up his walls, it was a slow and heavy and painful process, and he knew he couldn’t keep building up, because in the sky the air is too thin to breathe, and he’d suffocate, but he couldn’t stop building because the water was gradually catching him, and he was slowly beginning to drown.

  But then John came back, and Sherlock found himself _grateful_ for his inability to close the lesion in his heart; in the empty space next to him on the puzzle, because John still fit perfectly as he slotted himself back into the place next to Sherlock’s lone island and lit it up again, and drained the water that was slowly catching him; drowning him, and he brought him back to humanity, made him feel alive and as though it were _worth living_ and _worth_ draining the water away.

  John was his anything and everything, they were once again inseparable and perfect and almost _one_. John followed Sherlock, and Sherlock followed John, and that’s how it would always be: them together, side-by-side, just the two of them against the rest of the world, even if the rest of the world was going to cruel and dangerous and they’d have to fight and collect scars, lose blood and have pieces of their souls taken away, they’d do all this _together_ and so that meant that they’d make it.

  And Sherlock knew it was silly to think this way, he knew it was stupid to have put all his faith into one boy; one _sixteen year old_ boy, but he could feel it in his soul and his _being_ , and so that made it okay. And it was scary because if John ever decided he wanted out, Sherlock would be left with _nothing_ and there was no way out of that, but he found he couldn’t give John anything less than his _all_ , because he needed it, and felt that John did too.

  They could take on the world together if that’s what they needed to do.

  Because for once Sherlock Holmes and John Watson _weren’t alone,_ because they’d finally found each other again.

 

  Sherlock told John almost everything. But he never told John that he felt this way.

  He knew it was quite _ridiculous_ to feel it anyway, because it had only been a month since his return; a month since the world had righted itself once more, and therefore people would say it was ridiculous (not that he actually _cared_ what other people thought) to make claims of _needing_ another person the way he _knew_ he needed John Watson, even with only fifteen years of experience of life to go by, but that was why he never told him that he needed him and would literally _never_ let him go again, unless it was what _John_ said he _wanted_. But he couldn’t scare him off with that, so he’d just let it remain an unspoken promise that they would stay together for the rest of time.

  He also never spoke of the time without him, and how he had been left with _nothing_.

  He never asked where John had been, or what he did, or what had happened, or why he’d come back, because John never told him and he was fine with that, and Sherlock didn’t even know if he wanted to know.

  But then one Sunday afternoon, exactly five weeks and three days after John’s return, Sherlock had been lying comfortably on the nicest couch of his house, his head resting on John’s lap as John’s movie played on the telly in front of them, when the movie credits started playing and John looked down at him and smiled sadly.

  Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and frowned (partly at his confusion at John’s sadness, but also slightly due to the cold air that rushed to meet his head as it left the heat of John’s strong, warm legs), ‘what?’ he said.

                ‘I missed you,’ he replied softly.

  And a rush of warmth filled Sherlock’s heart as he smiled softly and sadly, because he knew what John meant, and of course, _of course_ he felt the same way, but he didn’t say so because he was scared of saying such things out loud; he couldn’t do it, he could never do it.

  So instead he gave into the impulse to reach up and stroke John’s face softly, to brush the hair out of his eyes before whispering, ‘I’m here, I haven’t moved.’

  John’s eyes crinkled in mirth before leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, leaving a barely contained shiver to run down his spine, and gooseflesh to prickle his arms and body in contentment and joy at the proximity, and he breathed onto his smooth, pale skin, ‘I meant before. I mean when I had to leave you.’

  _When I had to leave you._

  Sherlock smiled up at him, his eyes staring directly into that of his best friend’s before moving of their own accord to quickly glance at his mouth and then back up again.

  And he could have sworn that John was moving closer, that his face was moving closer to his own, and he could feel every breath that _gorgeous_ boy breathed, every soft whisper of air rushing onto his face as he exhaled.

  And then just as he let out a breath of anticipation, their mouths moved even closer, and John’s eyes were so near his own that they seemed to merge into one, and then they were closer, and their noses were touching and their lips were millimetres apart and Sherlock released a long, unsteady breath and John was moving closer and closer and Sherlock’s heart was beating so quickly it had drowned out every other sound in the world.

  And then the sound of a door being opened and of footsteps on the wooden floorboards coming slowly nearer broke the trance and the intimacy of their moment and John jerked away from his face in favour of looking upwards to the footsteps sounding from above, and Sherlock felt a rush of hate for his mother for interrupting so rudely, for taking away what had seemed to be the most important moment of his life, because they’d been so unimaginably _close_ , and Sherlock’s heart beat had been _ridiculously_ fast and _insanely_ loud in his ears, and it had seemed too tender and intimate to be normal, because for a second... for a second Sherlock had felt as though he’d wanted... been _about to_ kiss him.

  It was only then that Sherlock realised he was staring at his friend as he sat awkwardly on the other side of the sofa to where he’d moved suddenly in his haste to get away, and who was now avoiding eye contact with him, staring determinedly at the telly that had finished the end credits of the movie and was displaying nothing but plain black, and it was only then that Sherlock realised he very desperately wanted John to look at him again, to move back towards him. That he very, very much wanted to kiss him.

  But instead of moving closer to his friend, to try to reclaim the intimacy they’d just shared a moment before, he looked over at the TV, his head turning from where it was still propped up on his arm as he lay across half of the couch, he could see John’s reflection staring at his own, and made eye contact for half a second before his friend’s eyes darted quickly away in favour of staring once more at the ceiling above them.

  A strong wave of unease washed through Sherlock and settled in his bones. Something was off now. Something was definitely very wrong.

  John wouldn’t look him in the eye as he stood up and declared that ‘it was late’ and he should be getting home soon.

  Sherlock sat up properly at his declaration and offered for John to stay the night, but his friend had coughed awkwardly before saying that he’d better not, and that he’d see him the next day at school, and then gathered his coat quickly before rushing out of the room, leaving Sherlock to stare after him in confusion, to listen as his mother exclaimed slightly at noticing the small, handsome figure making his escape from the awkwardness that had somehow arisen at her arrival, and heard him tell her that he was off to get home and that it was nice to see her, before the door opened and closed hurriedly and John was gone.

  Sherlock could hear his mother walk down the stairs to the basement he still sat in, and quickly moved to grab the blanket before practically flinging himself back down into his former position (besides the particular _lack_ of John Watson that inevitably left his head to rest directly on the couch) and throwing the blanket over his entire body to re-enact one of his infamous pouting, leave-me-alone positions.

  The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs and opened the door to reveal the blanketed, pouting figure to his mother and he could hear her sigh in amusement before taking another step towards him and asking, ‘how was your day?’

  He didn’t deign to reply so she sighed softly and Sherlock could practically _feel_ the knowing smile she gave him before giving up and retreating back up the stairs to her own rooms, leaving Sherlock on his own to wonder how he had so spectacularly fucked up his only friendship, and to wonder what the _fuck_ had just happened with John Watson.


	7. It's Only Once We're Apart, That I Finally Understand That I Need You

  School was bloody awful when John Watson wouldn’t even look you in the eye.

  Sherlock couldn’t focus on anything but the blond boy rushing about from class to class, ignoring the longing looks Sherlock gave him as he hurried past him to reach his next destination. Sherlock felt like he was drowning, he couldn’t breathe properly as his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the boy smiling to other people, talking to people, even when that smile wasn’t the one of real, _pure,_ undiluted happiness that he’d only ever seen cast in his own direction, and even when the chatter was that of no importance, and clearly somewhat bored the special sun that was John Watson.

  So no, _life_ was bloody awful when John Watson wouldn’t look you in the eye. When he didn’t smile at you, or talk to you, or listen faithfully to the endless one-sided conversation that poured out of your mouth. Because that was what Sherlock lived for, the simple gift of this extraordinary being just… _being_.

  Existing was what John did that made him amazing; being himself; wonderful and lovely and amazing. And so when that extraordinary being was focusing his energy towards other people, people who did not respect him or appreciate him for the true magnificence that he was, it made a part of Sherlock’s chest ache in a way that made him want to cut it out and leave it to die, because it seemed that that would be _less_ painful.

  On Monday, John even avoided the only class that he and Sherlock shared, and on hearing the bell and realising John really wasn’t going to show up, Sherlock had to hold back the overwhelming despair that came with realising his best friend didn’t even want to share the space he walked, that he truly thought being in his presence was worse than missing a class. And that possibly hurt more than realising John wasn’t coming to him during lunch, because that meant he’d truly stopped wanting to associate with him at all.

 

  Exactly four days had passed since John had stopped talking to him; even _looking_ at him. Four days of loneliness and torture, and not a single smile coming from his lips.

  He’d almost stopped listening to the rest of world, because he knew that there was nothing worth listening to besides the sound of John’s voice… or his laugh… or his breaths… or the sound of his heartbeat.

  In Sherlock’s mind there was only one law; one law of the universe: if it wasn’t John, it wasn’t worth existing. Or paying attention to. Or remembering. Or _wanting_. Because he _wanted_ John; he _needed_ him as though his life depended on it, like his _soul needed it_ –which it did. He did. And John didn’t care.

  It was when Sherlock was lying on his bed in his bedroom, staring up at his ceiling, with his hands over the phone that was lying on his chest directly over his heart where he’d placed it after retreating from his initial absurd idea to use it. The world was so silent that he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, and could feel it beating even through the metal of the small mobile device, and his soul felt torn and battered and weak, and his eyes were dead and cold and lost, and suddenly truth occurred to him and realisation crashed into his body like a tidal wave, threatening to pull him under and tear him apart simultaneously. His head was spinning and his mind was racing and his chest was hurting as his lungs felt as though they’d contracted, disallowing air to enter his body.

  And then suddenly it stopped and he was left with a strange calmness, his mind blank and empty and his soul felt lighter than air as it seemed to bleed out of him onto the bed sheets and abandon his empty shell.

  He was in love with John Watson.

  His breath caught slightly for a moment, and his body was completely motionless save for the fluttering of his eyelids in the dark.

  He was in love with John Watson. The boy who’d found him; the one who’d saved him, who then left him. The one who came back to him; the one who rescued him again, and now abandoned him and his only hope for happiness, all over again.

  And he was in love with him.

  Sherlock sighed quietly and closed his eyes around the pain that threatened to swallow him whole, remaining like that for half an hour before his breathing slowed and evened out and his eyes stopped fluttering, and his mind left the shell of his body and the pain it constantly suffered since John had repaired his soul only to delicately destroy it again.

  His last thought before his mind had drifted away into temporary, blissful oblivion still seemed to remain in his room, hiding away in the shadows and whispered softly in the wind that blew through his open window.

  _I’m in love with John Watson_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: I'm now officially 15 and 1 day old :D
> 
> So, to be honest, I can't really believe I actually got this far for this fanfic, so I am surprised about that. But also, just before I finished off the last paragraphs of the chapter I was thinking about how long it's gotten now. So much for a cute little oneshot lol.  
> 


	8. Mine

  Sherlock woke early the next morning feeling strangely lighter than he had for the entire week. The sunlight was shining into his eyes through the still-open curtains of his window from where he hadn’t bothered to close them the night before, and lit up the room in a soft yellow hue in a way that seemed to feel like it was almost encouraging him to lighten up and feel even better.

  Feeling instantly awake and alert he sat up on his bed and stared through the glass out into the garden of his gigantic house, then let his eyes wander to the path outside their fence, into the denser trees that hid his old favourite hiding place; the peaceful, quiet lake in which he hunted in for animals for his childhood experiments.

  He could still remember the day he’d taken John there to look at the stars; his favourite person in his favourite place. He still remembered their quiet conversation, the whispered promises to fall in love if it could be possible; to one day be married.

  Sherlock now knew he had kept his side of the promise. He knew now for sure that boys could love other boys. He’d never really thought about it being an issue or a barrier to prevent he and John from being together until that day, until the words of a seven-year-old John Watson whispered to him, ‘ _little boys don’t love other little boys_ ,’ and his dreams of their future together were promptly shattered forever.

  Sherlock knew he liked boys, though. And he knew he _especially_ liked John.

  Remembering their time together was painful in a way that he couldn’t imagine it being because of anyone else, even if he’d even had the ability to tolerate them enough to be friends in the first place. How he felt; how he wanted to kiss John, and hold him to him forever, couldn’t be described as platonic. And just realising how _deeply_ he felt for him, how gut-wrenchingly painful it was to think about never talking to him again, he knew it wasn’t normal for friends to feel this way, because this pain was never put into the context of losing friendships, and even though he despised popular opinion, true love was the only thing he could think of to describe the way he felt.

  But even in accepting that, in finally understanding that he was in love and that’s why losing him hurt so much, remembering John didn’t seem to hurt as badly today. It felt as though perhaps there was something that had been connecting him to the other boy had been cut loose and now he was almost free from it, at least for now.

  With that, Sherlock slid out of bed, the shirt he’d fallen asleep in now crumpled and in desperate need of ironing, and his pants following suit in their uncharacteristically dishevelled appearance.

  Ignoring the awful-looking clothes, Sherlock took them off hurriedly before rushing off to take a shower.

  The heat of the water awakened him further, and he felt even lighter as most of the remaining weight on his shoulders seemed to be lifted off with the steam that rose from his rapidly warming body and into the fan that vented the room and somehow took away his problems with the steam as it sent it out into the atmosphere; to become the rest of the world’s problem for now.

  When he was finished, he left his room and went downstairs. There, he was met with gloominess and silence, and he smiled lightly to himself before walking into the kitchen to take an apple and then hurried quietly back up the stairs to the safety of his room.

  In the two hours before the clock struck eight and Mycroft was standing at his bedroom door waiting impatiently for Sherlock to collect his things for school, Sherlock managed to eat the entire apple and make progress on his newest experiment: researching different moulds and their growth on the bark from the beech trees in his garden, in separate, carefully planned environments. So far only the humid environment had seemed to be successful in his endeavour, but he hadn’t given it much time so far, so the experiment wasn’t a failure just yet.

  The ride to school was entirely _unbearable. Of course_ Mycroft had had to have learnt of Sherlock’s abandonment-situation and was not pleased with the depressive moods he’d been prone to for the entirety of the past week and its duration.

  From the driver’s seat Mycroft said nothing, but that did nothing to ease the rising irritation in Sherlock chest from where he was sitting next to him. It was the strange air of the suffocatingly small car that made Sherlock uncomfortable, which set his teeth on edge and made his blood boil. Mycroft had a certain way about him in which he could be looking away from a person, but still somehow watch them at the same time, and Sherlock could not stand it. It seemed unnatural and wrong, and it was fucking _annoying_. So Sherlock spent the entire sixteen-minute-and-thirty-two-second ride glaring coldly at his brother.

  The car finally pulled to a stop and Mycroft turned to smile “politely” at his brother (though the word “smile” was quite a stretch) and bid him farewell and Sherlock gratefully and hurriedly opened the door and hopped out.

  He’d already begun walking away from the car in favour of lingering lest he be called back for an awkward and irritating “chat” with his older brother, by the time he’d grabbed his bag and shut the door.

  He was earlier arrived at school today than he had been in the past four days, seeing as he’d seen no reason to be there for an extra half hour if there was no John Watson to occupy his time, so he decided to go to his locker and then head to the library for quiet time to think.

  On the seemingly long and slow trek through the school halls to his locker, he glanced up only once, regretting his decision instantly on spotting the short blond who had avoided his presence since the past Sunday.

  Ducking his head down before his old friend turned around, he darted into the nearest corridor and took the even longer walk to his locker.

  Only thirty seconds later he reached another corner, not raising his head as he turned into it, he walked straight into the body of a taller, stronger figure than himself.

                ‘Well, well, well,’ the body said from a foot above his bowed head.

  Sherlock felt his stomach drop uncomfortably as he looked up, only to find himself face-to-face with literally the last person on the planet that he could possibly want to find himself with.

                ‘Oi, look who it is,’ he said, turning to the gang grouped up behind him.

  They all turned to face him, and Sherlock noticed a few of the faces lighting up distastefully on seeing his presence.

                ‘What you doin’ there, Holmes?’ the spectacularly ignorant, Biff Bludger called out to him.

                ‘Look, it’s Freak,’ Donavan said from her place next to him.

  Sherlock smiled sarcastically at her and she returned the gesture.

                ‘Why are you down here, Holmes? Don’t you have a boyfriend to go and fuck, you faggot?’ the boy in front of him said mockingly.

  Sherlock didn’t reply and instead glanced around the group, the deductions flooding his mind, ready to draw for attack.

                ‘Having fun with your friend’s girlfriend, Anderson?’ he replied, his voice completely indifferent.

                ‘You don’t know shit, you Freak,’ he snarled in response.

  Sherlock sighed dramatically. ‘Don’t talk out loud, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the _whole_ street.’

  Then, taking a step back away from him, he started walking around the group.

                ‘Hey, don’t walk away when we’re talking to you,’ Bludger yelled, and the next thing Sherlock knew, he was being grabbed by the collar and pushed into the wall, his bag cushioning most of the impact.

                ‘You weren’t speaking. And besides, don’t you have better things to do? Like perhaps dumping your unfaithful girlfriend,’ he said, grimacing at the proximity of another person.

                ‘Shut up, you liar,’ he spat, pushing him further into the wall, enough that the pressure was beginning to hurt.

  Then Bludger raised an arm and Sherlock closed his eyes slightly to brace himself for the attack.

                ‘Hey!’ a familiar voice shouted from a few feet away.

  Anderson laughed, ‘well, who do we have here? Holmes’ boyfriend, come to save the day?’

                ‘Back off, Anderson,’ John said, and then he walked up to Bludger and spoke harshly. ‘Let him go or you’ll be getting the hardest training session of your _life_ next week.’

  Biff looked back and forward between the two and finally backed up, releasing Sherlock so that he could move enough to get away.

  Not waiting to give the boys another opportunity and to escape the unbearable, suffocating air of John’s presence, Sherlock turned away quickly and hurried down the corridor to the library, abandoning his initial idea to visit his locker beforehand.

 

  Sherlock swore that someone must have slowed the clock in the maths room that day. The last ten minutes of period four had been stretched into _hours_ of pain and suffering.

  It turned out that a relatively okay day could turn out to be just as horrible as one that had been terrible to begin with.

 Since Sherlock had hurried to escape John and the bullies he’d felt miserable for leaving John without any thanks for rescuing him from the physical pain the other boys would have dealt. But the pain that John had inflicted the past few days had been enough to make him flee without a word of thanks.

  Sherlock glanced back at the minute hand on the clock and noted it was one minute from the hour.

  The seconds moved slowly around the clock until _finally_ it reached the twelve, and on cue, the bell rang, signalling the start of lunch.

  Sherlock stood up instantly, grabbing his books and racing out of the room before everyone else, and walked straight to his locker at the other end of the school.

  If he hurried, he hoped he could avoid John, who would be in the health class in the middle of the school, and so would have a head start in getting to the locker area.

  As he passed the corridor John would probably be heading down, he heard a faint, ‘Sherlock!’ call out to him, but he kept walking quickly down the hall, ignoring the pain in his chest as air stopped moving properly through his lungs and his heart started racing a bit too fast for comfort. He reached his locker, unlocking it with quick, calculated movements, throwing in his books and practically slamming the door shut again with a bang loud enough to echo slightly in the gradually filling hallway.

 With that, he walked quickly to the door and exited the hot building, his chest heaving as the cooler, fresher, more-breathable air filled his lungs and he could breathe again.

  After a few seconds of recovery, his eyes scanned his surroundings, and with a jolt of realisation, accompanied by a sinking feeling in his stomach, he noticed which side of the hallway he’d walked out of.

  If he wanted to get to the library, he’d have to walk back through the corridor and that would mean getting too close to John, so instead, thinking quickly, he opted for a secluded bench in the corner of the school, facing towards a small garden and mostly hidden behind a tall, bushy tree.

  Walking up to it slowly, he inspected the seat and, deciding it was adequate for use, he sat down and leaned against the back rest, sighing softly into the cool air.

 

  The crunch of leaves behind him jerked him from his thoughts and back into reality.

  Turning around suddenly, he saw John Watson standing alone, looking rather awkward and unsure.

  Sherlock narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly to hide the panic rising in his chest and turned away as though irritated. ‘I see you’ve decided to pay a visit,’ he said sardonically.

                ‘How nice,’ he added sarcastically.

                ‘Look, Sherlock-’ John started.

                ‘ _No_ , it was really quite lovely without your presence. I learned a great deal about betrayal,’ Sherlock interrupted, still not turning around.

  The sound of John’s feet shuffling on the ground made Sherlock’s stomach drop as it filled with regret, but then he noticed that the footsteps were coming closer to him, and then the next thing he knew, John was sitting at the edge of the seat beside him, and from what Sherlock could make out in his peripheral vision, looking a mix of scared, unsure and determined.

  _Why, John?_ was the only thought that went through his head, as his heart picked up speed and started hammering so loudly in his ears that he felt he could go deaf.

                ‘Sherlock,’ he tried again.

  Sherlock turned his head away slightly as though uninterested.

                ‘I’m sorry,’ John said finally.

  And finally Sherlock turned around to face him, and he was met with soft, blue, _sincere_ eyes, and then his stomach started somersaulting for an entirely different reason.

  Then it became too much and he looked down at the ground just so he could look away from the overwhelmingly emotional face he found himself confronted with.

  Then, after a few minutes of silence, which consisted of Sherlock staring blankly at the grass and John looking around awkwardly at anything that wasn’t his friend, Sherlock choked out, ‘me too.’

  And then he looked back up and this time it was so much easier, as he found the same relief he felt, reflected on the face of the boy next to him, and he found that it was very comforting to know that his forgiveness was reciprocated.

  Then he shuffled slightly in his seat and turned to stare back down at the grass as he asked quietly, ‘why?’

                ‘Why what?’

  _Damn you_ , he thought. _You_ know _what._

  Sherlock cleared his throat, ‘uhm- why did you stop talking to me and start avoiding me.’

  Then, to Sherlock’s amazement, John laughed in a way that sounded _relieved_ , ‘I didn’t.’

  Sherlock’s head snapped up to face him, ‘what!?’ he exclaimed.

                ‘I thought _you_ were avoiding me. So I stopped talking to you,’ he replied almost shyly.

                ‘What? Then why did you leave on Sunday night, and then avoid the class we had together on Monday?’ he asked, feeling almost irritated.

                ‘Oh, well, on Monday I got called to the office. Someone from a sports uni was offering me a scholarship,’ he said.

                ‘Oh,’ Sherlock replied softly.

                ‘So, I turned that down,’ he continued.

                ‘You want to be an army doctor, obviously,’ Sherlock said easily.

                ‘You know the ordinary response would be to ask why, but I don’t know why I even bothered to expect that from you,’ he chuckled.

                ‘Because I’m weird,’ Sherlock said, his voice indifferent, hiding the put-off feeling in his chest.

                ‘No, because you’re extraordinary,’ he said, and Sherlock’s chest swelled so much that he had to stay silent for a moment in order to breathe and to not give anything away by blurting out his true feelings unexpectedly.

  When he felt composed, he looked up at his friend and smiled, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach as it was returned sheepishly.

  So, to avoid accidently voicing any of the thoughts going through his mind, Sherlock asked, ‘so, what about on Sunday?’

  And then John’s smile disappeared and he looked suddenly very awkward and Sherlock instantly became simultaneously regretful and more curious.

  Then John took a deep breath before he said, ‘my dad never liked Harry’s girlfriends.’

  Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, and John continued.

                ‘When I first moved to London, it was my dad’s idea,’ he said.

                ‘Like I deduced,’ Sherlock said quickly.

                ‘Yes, okay, show-off, we know you were always clever,’ he said mockingly. ‘Anyway, we moved as an attempt on my dad’s behalf, to get Harry to stop dating.’

                ‘But it didn’t work?’

                ‘Well, no.’

                ‘So then your dad moved you all to France to get him away from the girls in London,’ Sherlock said.

  John looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher, but then nodded, ‘well, he got a job offer and I assume he was so willing to take it because he wanted to get Harry away from the English girls, yeah.’

  Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly in contemplation. Then he asked slowly, ‘so... why did your father have a problem with Harry’s girlfriends?’

  John smiled sadly, ‘because Harry is short for Harriet.’

  And finally Sherlock understood.

                ‘So... so you mean...’

                ‘Yes?’

                ‘Harry’s your... sister?’

  John smiled again, only this time it was more amusedly than sad.

  Sherlock just stared at him.

                ‘Yeah okay, this is starting to get a bit creepy now.’

                ‘-That means I got it _wrong!_ ’ he exclaimed.

  John burst out laughing. ‘ _That’s_ what you’re concerned about?’

                ‘There’s _always something!_ ’ Sherlock said, exasperatedly.

                ‘Yes, okay...’ John said, still laughing slightly.

                ‘Well, why didn’t you _say something!?_ And after all these years, I thought I’d actually _impressed_ you with my flawless deductions,’ Sherlock said sulkily.

  John raised his eyebrows in surprise, ‘you did,’ he said.

  Sherlock looked back at him, ‘well, you know what I mean,’ he mumbled, his cheeks heating up slightly in embarrassment.

                ‘So you were just trying to impress me, then,’ John teased playfully, laughing slightly at the idea.

                ‘Well, you still haven’t explained how your sister has anything to do with Sunday,’ Sherlock said, averting the attention from him and onto the former topic.

                ‘Can’t you deduce?’ John asked quietly.

  _I’m wrong,_ he thought. _I must be_.

                ‘It’s too much of a leap,’ he said simply, then looked at his friend expectantly.

                ‘Okay, well...’ John said, coughing awkwardly.

                ‘So... uh... my dad’s homophobic... as you now know...’ he said.

                ‘So?’

                ‘So... when I got home he noticed that I’d –uh- been spending too much time with you... and he... said that I should... stop. Hang around with girls more often instead,’ he said, looking up at Sherlock.

                ‘Oh.’

                ‘So my dad’s trying to get me to get a girlfriend, now and that’s not-‘

                ‘But _John_?’ Sherlock interrupted, standing up abruptly, suddenly exasperated. ‘Why did you _leave?_ ’

  John looked around awkwardly before he stood up and took a step forward cautiously.

                ‘Well, because...’ he began, biting his lip.

  Then he took another step forward, and he was standing so close they were almost touching. John looked up into his eyes and Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry.

  Then John licked his lips and raised his arms to Sherlock’s neck and said, ‘Because I wanted to do this.’

  And then he pulled him down and their lips met and Sherlock froze for a moment in shock before reality smashed into him like a tidal wave and he was _melting_ into the other boy, his heart racing even as a calmness washed over him and he felt light and easy as every burden he’d been carrying seemed to be lifted off his chest at the touch.

  For seconds that seemed to last an eternity, John was _kissing him_ and it felt as though the world had righted itself and everything was good and _perfect_ in this moment; in this _second_ because nothing else mattered besides this perfect heaven that he’d created.

  Then it finally ended as they broke for air, and they were left breathing heavily to regain their breaths, staring at each other and smiling idiotically in shock, relief and awe.

  And then Sherlock suddenly moved forwards ever-so-slightly and wrapped his arms around him, relaxing when the other boy did the same, and then he let his face drop onto his shoulder as he breathed in the scent of the boy he wanted most in the world as he held him close.

  Then John broke the silence as he whispered, ‘I love you,’ and Sherlock’s heart stopped beating for a second before picking up its pace to a million beats per second.

                ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name,’ he said.

  John pulled back from him and frowned in confusion, ‘what?’

  Then Sherlock laughed slightly and said, ‘I have no idea.’

                ‘Right...’

  Then Sherlock leaned down again and his lips met John’s and he practically sighed into the kiss, almost jumping with joy when it was returned.

 When he’d finished he pulled back and looked straight into the deep blue eyes and said so softly it was almost a whisper, ‘John Watson, I am hopelessly and irrevocably in love with you.’

  Then John giggled _adorably_ and then gave him a mischievous look.

‘I’m not surprised. I would be too, I mean,’ he gestured to himself.

  Sherlock smiled and laughed, rolling his eyes playfully, ‘yes, okay, show-off, we know how attractive you are.’

  Then John smiled at him again and his stomach flipped at the look in his eyes, and he found that he really couldn’t help but kiss him again.

  And then again.

  And then again.

  Because he _could._

  Because he was _his_.


	9. Epilogue: Then We Would

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me if you are here, especially if you've been reading since the beginning.  
> I hope you enjoy this short epilogue

  Sherlock adjusted his tie nervously then ran his hand down the suit jacket in order to remove the non-existent creases. Glancing into the mirror to his left, he sighed softly as the images flashed back in his mind’s eye.

  He turned around to face his bedroom door and walked out into the living room.

 

  The long working day had finally drawn to its close and Sherlock sat in their living room, ready and waiting at 5 o’clock, just as John walked up the stairs slowly but lighter than he usually did after his long shifts at the clinic.

  John smiled at him and walked into the living room, kissing him quickly before pulling back and smiling. ‘I need a shower. I’ll be done in twenty minutes.’

  Sherlock hummed, ‘I could join you,’ he said, his voice low and deep in his throat.

  John laughed, ‘no, we have to be there on time.’

  Sherlock pouted as John pulled away and made his way into the bathroom.

 

                 ‘Do you remember it?’ Sherlock asked suddenly, seated in the chair at Angelo’s he’d sat in the first night he and John had spent together on a proper date.

                ‘Well... I can remember an awful lot of things,’ John said, his eyes scanning the menu quickly. Then he looked up, ‘you’ll have to be more specific.’

  Sherlock smiled, ‘that night when we were younger. I basically proposed to you in advance.’

  John froze for half a second before he said, ‘yeah, I do. Why?’ he asked, almost worriedly.

                ‘I always wondered something...’

                ‘Yeah?’  John asked quickly.

                ‘You’re sister was gay,’

                ‘Oh, yeah,’ he replied, relaxing slightly.

                ‘And you knew that? At the time?’

                ‘Yeah, I did.’

                ‘And you were... okay with it?’ he asked carefully.

  John frowned, ‘of course. Sherlock, are you okay-’

                ‘Then why did you say we couldn’t fall in love because we were boys?’ he interrupted.

  John stared at him for a moment in confusion before breaking out into a smile.

                ‘” _Little boys don’t love other little boys.”’_

  Sherlock nodded.

  John laughed slightly.

                ‘I didn’t mean because it was gay –or queer,’ he said.

                ‘Oh?’

                ‘No.’

  Then understanding dawned on him like a sunrise.

                ‘Emphasise the “little” and it becomes a different message,’ he murmured. Then he turned to look at his boyfriend, ‘you were saying it was because we were too _young_.’

  John smiled and nodded.

                ‘And you know...’ John started with a small smile. ‘We aren’t too young, anymore.’

  Sherlock’s stomach did about ten somersaults and his head felt lighter.

                ‘And,’ John continued, ‘I am _quite_ certain that boys can love other boys.’

  Sherlock’s stomach clenched uncomfortably in anticipation.

  Then John looked up at him and reached his left hand into his pocket, drawing out a small box and holding it out for him.

                ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes,’ Sherlock said, his heart racing in his chest so quickly he thought he might faint.

  John frowned slightly.

                ‘That’s the whole of it... if you were wanting to say it.’

  John smiled.

                ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes,’ he said slowly. ‘You have been the love of my life since the day I came back to you. You were the best thing that could have possibly happened to me. So, would you do me the honours of becoming my husband?’

  Sherlock couldn’t breathe and tears stung his eyes and he nodded, choking out, ‘yes.’

  The whole restaurant clapped as John moved in to kiss him, reaching under the table to hold his hand in order to comfort his fiancé.

  John pulled back and looked into his eyes, his right hand lifting up to brush the tears off his face as he whispered, ‘I am so in love with you. And we’ll be together until the end of time.’

                ‘You’re my soulmate,’ Sherlock said suddenly.

  John laughed.

                ‘You know,’ he said.

                ‘I think I am.’


End file.
